The Book of Scottish Song/Halucket Meg
[Written by the late Rev. J. Nicol, minister of Inverleithin, Peeblesshire, to the tune of "The Mucking of Geordie's byre," of which tune some account is given in the Introduction to the preceding song.]
Meg, muckin' at Geordie's byre,
Wrought as gin her judgment was wrang;
Ilk daud o' the scartle strake fire,
While, loud as a lavrock, she sang!
Her Geordie had promised to marrie,
An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair,
Not dreamin' the job could miscarrie,
Already seem'd mistress an' mair!
My neebours, she sang, aften jeer me,
An' ca' me, daft, halucket Meg,
An' say, they expect soon to hear me
I' the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg!
An' now, 'bout my marriage they clatter,
An' Geordie, poor fallow! they ca'
An' auld doitet hav'rel!—Nae matter,
He'll keep me aye brankin' an' braw!
I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle,
That the white o' his e'e is turn'd out,
That his black beard is rough as a heckle,
That his mou to his lug's rax'd about;
But they needna let on that he's crazie,
His pike-staff wull ne'er let him fa';
Nor that his hair's white as a daisie,
For, fient a hair has he ava!
But a weel-plenish'd mailin has Geordie,
An' routh o' gude goud in his kist,
An' if siller comes at my wordie,
His beauty, I never wull miss't!
Daft gouks, wha catch fire like tinder,
Think love-raptures ever will burn!
But wi' poortith, hearts het as a cinder,
Wull cauld as an iceshogle turn!
There'll just be ae bar to my pleasure,
A bar that's aft fill'd me wi' fear,
He's sic a hard, ne'er-be-gawn miser,
He likes his saul less than his gear!
But though I now flatter his failin',
An' swear nought wi' goud can compare,
Oude sooth! it sall soon get a scailin'!
His bags sail be mouldie nae mair!
I dreamt that I rade in a chariot,
A flunkie ahint me in green;
While Geordie cried out, he was harriet,
An' the saut tear was blindin' his een;
But though 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye,
I'll ha'e frae him what ser's my turn;
Let him slip awa' whan he grows wearie,
Shame fa' me! gin lang I wad mourn!
But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin',
Was cloutin' his breeks i' the bauks,
An' when a' his failins she brang in,
His Strang, hazle-pike-staff he taks:
Designin' to rax her a lounder,
He chanced on the lather to shift,
An' down frae the bauks, flat's a flounder,
Flew, like a shot-starn frae the lift!
But Meg, wi' the sight, was quite haster'd,
An' nae doubt, was bannin' ill luck;
While the face o' poor Geordie was plaster'd,
And his mou' was fill'd fu' wi' the muck!
Confound ye! cried Geordie, an' spat out
The glaur that adown his beard ran;—
Preserve us! quo' Meg, as she gat out
The door,—an' thus lost a gudeman!